Three Nights On Jakku
by CatWingsAthena
Summary: In which Rey can't sleep, Finn just woke up, and Poe needs to stay awake.
1. The Downed AT-AT

**A/N: I do not own any of these characters. Also, the first line is a reference to Charlotte's Web, by E. B. White: "When your stomach is empty and your mind is full, it's always hard to sleep." Enjoy!**

One miserable hour after her full mind and empty stomach jolted her awake, Rey gave up on sleeping.

She'd managed to keep the climate control in the downed AT-AT she had made her home fairly intact, but the sandstorm last week had damaged the thermal shielding and decreased the overall insulating capabilities. The profound lack of any water vapor (or anything reflective, really) in the sand-dry atmosphere of the desert world on which she took up space ( _not forever, they'll come back_ ) meant that the sun's heat, so intense during the day, was readily radiated back out into the void whence it came.

Translation: she was really kriffing cold.

If she could just get her hands on some insulation tape, she could seal the breach, but to do that, she'd need to trade. To trade, she'd need portions.

She really didn't have any to spare.

Which led her to her next problem.

Unkar Plutt had given her one quarter portion for the day's haul. _One quarter portion_. It wasn't her best haul of all time, admittedly, but it should've been worth a full portion at least. She took a moment to soundly curse the slimy bastard in every language she knew, a considerable undertaking that both made her feel better and distracted her from the reason she'd woken up in the first place.

She'd been having the dreams again.

It had started out innocently enough. She was flying some sort of ship, hands dancing over the controls like she'd been born knowing them, even though she didn't recognize them from any of the schematics on her interface. Below, she could see a vast plain of blue, with dunes that rolled and crashed, somehow, unbelievably, made of water.

 _Ocean_.

She knew the word. She'd heard it from an offworlder who'd gotten lost near Niima Outpost, years ago. _An ocean of sand_ , they'd said.

 _What's an ocean_? she'd asked, young and bubbling with curiosity, and the offworlder had told her, and she'd helped them find their way.

As they boarded their ship, they'd given her an appraising look. _Where are your parents?_

 _They're not here now. But they'll come back for me, someday._

The offworlder had stared. _You mean, they're not with you? Are you alone here?_ They had paused. _You could come with my wife and me, if you like. We have a daughter about your age-I think you'd get on well._ They extended their hand. _Please, don't stay here alone. Let us help you._

Rey had backed away. _No. I'm fine. They'll be back any day now. I have to be here. I'll be alright._ She looked the offworlder square in the eye. _Thank you for telling me about the ocean. Now please go._

It was the first time she'd realized the blue in her dreams was water.

As the dream went on, she saw a speck of green up ahead.

 _Island_. A little land in a lot of water. Somehow.

Closer. The ground was covered in green fur. _Grass_. Grey slabs of stone formed a rough ladder up the slope, leading to-

The dream shifted.

No more green. No more water. A young woman in a white robe was leaning over an R2 unit in the dimly lit corridors of what Rey recognized instantly as a Star Destroyer. She heard something, turned her head; there was fear in her eyes, but it was overshadowed by purpose.

Another shift.

A young man, about her age, standing on a ridge in a desert-but not Jakku. His clothes reminded Rey of her own. Over his shoulder, Rey could see two suns setting in the sky.

Another shift.

Nighttime. An orange and white BB unit was rolling through the sand as the glow of blaster bolts illuminated the sky and cries of anguish sounded in the distance. Pausing for a moment, it swiveled its dome to look behind, then continued on into the darkness.

Another shift.

A man was walking through the desert under the unwavering sun, dark skin glistening with sweat, wearing some sort of thin black clothing and a thoroughly incongruous leather jacket. He looked- _lost_ , in every sense of the word.

Another shift.

It was night again. A different man was semi-sprawled in the sand, battered and bloody, surrounded by the detritus of an ejected fighter seat. He appeared to be holding a conversation with empty air-probably crazy from thirst or heatsickness, or maybe he'd hit his head in the crash. Still, his eyes were strangely focused.

Another shift.

Brief, dizzying glimpses rushed past, too quickly to see clearly, more impressions than images. Stripes of light and dark. The feeling of being trapped. Orange. Explosions in the sky. Blue. Moisture on her skin. Green. Falling, in the wrong direction. Red and blue. Panic.

Arms around her. Warmth. Safety. Light.

Of course, that's when her stomach decided to wake her up.

Unkar Plutt had definitely been stingier with the portions recently. She was lucky if she got a third of what she used to, and Plutt had never paid the full worth of her hauls anyway.

Maybe, Rey thought, he was trying to starve her into submission. She was useful to him as a good, compliant scavenger, but she'd gotten too independent, might have started challenging his authority. No matter how much she brought in, Force forbid he have given her more than the bare minimum needed to stay alive.

If Plutt kept all the scavengers on the edge of starvation, Rey knew, none of them would have the energy or the courage to stand up to the one who controlled the food.

She didn't have to put up with this. Didn't have to starve, didn't have to be achingly thirsty all the time, didn't have to freeze at night and roast during the day. She could have left. Traded work for transport with the next offworlder who came by, stolen one of Plutt's trashy ships and gotten it working in the air, stowed away on a freighter and waited to see where it took her.

For a long moment, Rey entertained the fantasy. Then, she looked over at the marks on the wall.

She'd lasted this long. She refused to be driven away now. She'd eat mummified happabore if she had to, but she _would not_ leave this planet until her family came for her.

Rey took a deep breath. It was going to be a long night.


	2. The Village of Tuanul

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. Also, some ideas are sourced from the novelization by Alan Dean Foster, although not many, as I haven't actually read it yet.**

FN-2187 stood in the packed shuttle, grateful for his helmet.

It wasn't because, in a few hours, the clunky object would be the only thing between his head and whatever projectiles the enemy managed to scrounge up. Nor was he grateful because the helmet, like so much else, had been provided for him by the ever-generous First Order ( _and we must always be grateful for the things the First Order provides_ ).

He was grateful because it meant no one could see his face.

He knew he should have been excited. Tuanul was his first real mission, his first chance to prove himself in a combat situation. According to his reports, he'd shown promise as officer material-all he had to do was prove that his field performance lived up to his sim scores.

That, and allay concerns that had appeared in his reports about the "empathetic tendencies toward weak links" he had displayed in training. He'd heard the argument a thousand times: _a team is only as strong as its weakest link. By unduly aiding weak team members, you weaken the entire team. Such behavior could cost an entire squad. Better to lose one member now than all members later._ FN-2187's helmet hid his shudder as Captain Phasma's disapproving voice echoed through his mind.

He should have been excited. Instead, anxiety twisted itself into a coiled mass in his gut.

 _Slip._

A row over and two places ahead, FN-2187 could see the unsteady stance and ragged breathing of FN-2003, better known as Slip. Ever since they'd been assigned to a unit together, virtually all of FN-2187's warnings for excessive empathy were because of Slip, who had come by his nickname by literally and figuratively slipping up almost constantly. Of the four members of their squad, Slip was definitely the weakest link, and FN-2187 had been advised, by both his superiors and his squadmates, to let him fall behind and get their team a fourth member who could actually keep up. He'd been warned that he was in danger of a citation for preferential treatment if he continued. But really, it wasn't that at all.

Slip needed help. When FN-2187 saw someone who needed help, he needed to help them.

He'd always been that way. If any of the other Troopers felt the same thing, they'd successfully taught themselves not to let it bother them. FN-2187...couldn't.

It wasn't for lack of trying. He told himself that the First Order could only bring peace and order to the galaxy if all of its soldiers were up to par. He told himself that it was ultimately cruel and morally reprehensible to let the weak survive, that it only led to more suffering, and that the instinct that told him otherwise was a product of a shortsighted moral system that evolved to favor the self and that closest to it over the greater whole. He told himself that he'd never be like the others, never belong, if he couldn't fight the weakness inside him (and he wanted to belong, he wanted it _so badly_ ). He told himself that he'd get sent to reconditioning if he couldn't stop helping the weak.

(He told himself that the sinking shame he felt when he used that argument was over his weakness for being so intractably empathetic, that it didn't mean anything else.)

Still, when Slip fell behind, he _needed_ to help in the same way he needed food after a day of endurance training on reduced rations.

Still, on the occasions when he convinced himself not to help, it _hurt_ him.

Still, something inside said _wrong, wrong, wrong_ , pounding out a rhythm like a second heartbeat.

Standing in the shuttle, grateful for the mask that hid his face from his fellows, FN-2187 worried. Slip was almost certainly going to get himself in trouble on this mission, and when that happened...

To distract himself, FN-2187 reviewed the mission parameters.

 _These enemies of the First Order have passed valuable intelligence to a Resistance spy hiding in their midst. The spy must be captured at all costs, and the enemies must be punished. Initial orders are to spread chaos in the village. Let no one leave. Await further orders._

FN-2187 had a suspicion about what those "further orders" might be, and quickly decided he'd prefer not to think about that until it became necessary. Intellectually, of course, he knew that these were enemies of peace and deserved whatever they got, but that didn't make dealing with them any more pleasant to contemplate. _Okay_ , he thought, _one thing at a time. Spread chaos. I can do that. I can spread chaos._

With a shuddering jerk, the shuttle landed, and the ramp went down. Troopers poured out into the desert night, over the unsteady sand and through the dry, windy air, and FN-2187 might have taken a moment to marvel at the strangeness of this new place, so far from the sterile corridors of a base or the humid air of a shuttle, but the tide carried him forward, and-

The world exploded.

Blaster bolts flew in all directions. Flamethrowers bathed every structure in billowing clouds of fire. Screams rang out, structures collapsed, people ran from their flimsy homes only to be shot down.

He'd meant to spread chaos. He hadn't truly understood what _chaos_ meant.

A child was screaming for his mother. A blast of light and the scream ended.

Weren't they supposed to be the ones bringing order to the galaxy?

Weren't they supposed to be the ones bringing peace?

This wasn't peace.

This wasn't even war.

This was _slaughter_.

He kept moving, numbly propelled by the need to appear to be doing something.

Then Slip went down.

A blaster bolt, seemingly out of nowhere. _These people don't have blasters_ , thought the part of FN-2187's brain that was still capable of tactical analysis.

The rest of him had ground to a complete halt.

Dimly aware of the fact that he was _definitely_ getting a citation for _this_ , FN-2187 fell to the ground beside his-squadmate? _Friend?_

"I'm sorry," Slip whispered through his helmet comm. Slowly, he reached up towards FN-2187's helmet, running bloody fingers along the hard, white surface. Then his hand went slack.

FN-2187 couldn't say anything.

Getting back to his feet, he looked in the direction the shot had come from and saw a burning X-wing, engines irretrievably damaged. _Must have belonged to the spy_. Which probably meant the blaster had, too. Mystery solved, one less thing to put in the report.

The shorter his report on this incident, the better.

FN-2187 didn't want to report how it had gotten really hard to breathe, or how he'd somehow started thinking of the enemies as _people_ , or how he'd felt like curling up into a ball and crying, or throwing up, or both. He didn't want to report how much he would have given to be anywhere but where he was.

He didn't want to report how he'd found himself hoping against hope that the spy would get away, because he knew what would happen if the spy was caught, and the walls of the _Finalizer_ were anything but soundproof, and if he never heard a scream again it would be too soon.

He didn't want to report how he'd been paying attention when the spy was captured, turning up his helmet's audio enhancers as high as they would go, listening to the stranger's words with the curiosity of one who'd just lost what certainty he'd had in the world and wondered what else was out there.

He _definitely_ didn't want to report that he'd been impressed.

He didn't want to report how his stomach had sunk when he'd heard Kylo Ren's offhand order to "kill them all", and seen his fellow troopers round up the villagers without question- _exactly what I'm supposed to be doing, what I thought ten minutes ago I'd be doing-_ and fire into their midst on command, cutting them down with no hesitation, no guilt.

He didn't want to report how he'd frozen, unwilling to fire, unable to think of a better solution.

No way to stop it. All just as dead as if he'd fired on them himself.

 _And, as soon as I turn in a blaster I haven't fired, I'm going to be much deader_. _Reconditioning at the very least, execution more likely._

FN-2187 was officer material, an excellent tactical thinker. By the time he made it back into the shuttle, standing once more in rows of masked troopers (and suddenly, despite the fact that he still needed to keep his face hidden, now more than ever, he wasn't grateful for the mask at all, he _hated_ it, he needed it _gone_ , and only the knowledge that removing a mask without permission would get him into even worse trouble than he was in already kept him from ripping it off then and there), memories and deductions were condensing into the beginnings of a plan.

 _Kylo Ren said the spy was a pilot, the best in the Resistance, I think. He came in an X-wing, which bears that out, the pilot bit, at least-X-wings only seat one. The way he talked to Kylo Ren-he's brave, crazy brave, and confident, almost cocky. I can use that._

FN-2187 could free the pilot, who could fly them both out of there in a TIE-fighter FN-2187 would show him how to steal.

It was perfect. A viable chance at escape from a ship considered escape-proof. Beyond that, the plan would also help the pilot. FN-2187 wasn't sure what it would be like to embrace the helping instinct he'd tried to suppress his whole life, but he was looking forward to finding out. Assuming he survived that long.

Assuming the _pilot_ survived that long.

Biggest foreseeable problem with the plan: the only way FN-2187 could think of to free the pilot was to arrange to be the trooper charged with transporting him to his place of execution (or, failing that, surreptitiously replace the said trooper).

They wouldn't execute the pilot until they'd gotten what they wanted from him.

Which meant that, until the pilot gave up whatever information he had, FN-2187 couldn't do a thing.

Thanks to Kylo Ren's Force powers, that would take a maximum of ten hours. Standard procedure was to interrogate prisoners by more traditional means for nine hours, and, if they hadn't cracked, bring in Kylo Ren. The extra hour included Ren's travel time, time spent intimidating the prisoner, and time spent doing whatever in Jedi's name Ren did to people.

(The troopers had this down to a science. There was very little to talk about on the _Finalizer_ , and propaganda and status reports quickly ceased to be interesting.)

Not that there was nothing else wrong with the plan. FN-2187's thoughts on the shuttle ride back to the _Finalizer_ mostly consisted of _they'll definitely shoot at us_ and _what if they rush me into reconditioning or execute me before the pilot breaks?_ and _he's an X-wing pilot, I'm relying on the survival instinct of a man who may not have one_.

He could do something about the second factor-he knew how to stall for time-but the first and third were up to the pilot.

Any hope FN-2187's plan had of working depended on the piloting skills, courage, self-confidence, and will to live of the Resistance spy. He only hoped those qualities would survive the next ten hours.

FN-2187 took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. It was going to be a long night.

 **A/N: Thoughts? Comments? Questions? Anything you liked or didn't like? Anything confusing? Anything you want to yell at me for? Reviews are appreciated!**


	3. The Middle of Kriffin' Nowhere

**A/N: Besides the usual disclaimer, BB-8's speech patterns are borrowed from the amazing fanfiction "The Coat Thief", by Gretahs, which can be found on AO3.**

 **For those who don't know, Kes Dameron and Shara Bey are Poe's parents from _Before the Awakening._ Shara died when Poe was eight.**

 **This story follows the headcanon that Poe and Ben Solo/Kylo Ren knew each other as kids.**

 **Enjoy!**

Upon woozily circling back to consciousness, Poe Dameron's first semi-coherent thought was: _OWWW_.

His ribs hurt. His face hurt. His wrists and ankles hurt.

Holy _kriff_ , his head hurt.

His next thought, besides the steady stream of blistering swearwords that had been filling his mind since he woke up, was: _where am I_?

Followed by: _could you_ be _any more cliché, Dameron?_

Still, he tried to raise his head and look around. A wave of dizziness told him that idea was going nowhere fast.

Neither was he. Obviously.

Lying still, he tried to take stock of his surroundings.

It was night. He could tell that much from the ambient darkness and the fact that his visual range included a slice of star-filled sky.

His visual range also included a large swathe of fabric, some twisted bits of metal, and a large quantity of sand.

Sand.

 _Jakku._

Memories of the mission came rushing back with the abrasive, blinding force of a sandstorm.

Lor San Tekka, dead. The map, and BB-8 ( _I'm sorry, buddy, I'm so kriffing sorry)_ , not safe and possibly already in the hands of the enemy.

Finn.

He'd managed to eject Finn's seat before ejecting his own, but the altimeter had been broken-he might have landed far away, or he might not have landed at all.

There were three possibilities. Finn might have died on impact. He might have been incapacitated, like Poe. If everything had gone just right, he might have gotten up and started walking.

Ninety percent of the directions Finn could choose had nothing within a few days' walk, and a few days in the desert with no water would be lethal.

Even if he was still where he'd landed, Poe was in no condition to go looking for him, and even if he _found_ him-well, what could he do?

So, not only had Poe failed to complete his mission, gotten a village full of innocents and a kind man who'd tried to protect him killed, betrayed the Resistance and everyone he'd ever cared about, and very probably broken a promise to BB-8, he'd most likely killed someone whose first act as a free human being had been to bet his life on Poe Dameron.

Well, _shit_.

It had definitely been daytime when they'd crashed. The lack of heat in the sand, combined with the intense cold that had settled under Poe's flightsuit and wrapped itself around his bones, indicated that it had been night for a while. The tight, blistering burn on the entire left side of his face said he'd been lying exposed in the sun all day.

He couldn't tell if his headache was dehydration, the head wound he'd sustained as a result of the First Order's more physical interrogation methods, a concussion from the crash (if the dizziness was anything to go by), or the lingering effects of Kylo Buckethead Ren's misuse of the Force ( _Seriously, Ben, what's with the mask? It's not as impressive as you think_ ). Probably, it was all of the above.

Poe Dameron, best pilot in the Resistance, was going to die half-buried in a sand dune, without his X-wing, his astromech ( _well, small mercies_ ), or his jacket.

He was so tired, and so cold, and he hurt so much. Part of him wanted to fall asleep and never wake up again. Never have to tell the General how he'd failed her, never have to see BB-8 scrapped for parts by the First Order, never have to face his friends and know that their odds of survival had gone way down, all because of him.

Another part of him said _no, this isn't right, you can't give up now, the mission isn't finished, it could still be all right, what would Mom say if she knew you were giving up?_

Poe knew he should get up. He knew he should at least try. But he was so tired, and so cold, and everything, _everything_ hurt.

"'M sorry, Beebee," he whispered.

[For what are you sorry, Friend-Poe?] replied a familiar-sounding astromech.

"Beebee?" Poe inquired cautiously, opening his eyes to the gloriously familiar sight of an orange-and-white BB unit.

[Affirmative,] replied BB-8.

"What are you doing here? Are you okay? Are you safe?"

[Beebee-Ate is both okay and safe. Beebee-Ate is not here.]

"What do you mean?" asked Poe. "You're right there-oh."

While the brightly colored orb was plain to see, there were no marks in the sand showing where they had come from, and they left no trace as they rolled back and forth.

"You're not real," groaned Poe, closing his eyes again. Hallucinations. Wonderful. At least it was only BB-8.

[Beebee-Ate is real! This version of Beebee-Ate is a mental representation produced by designation: Friend-Poe. Beebee-Ate is glad that Friend-Poe is alive.]

"Yeah, it's great to see you too, buddy, but I don't wanna hear about mental _anything_ right now. Wanna tell me a joke, or something?"

[Designation: Friend-Poe is in trouble. Jokes will not help.]

"That wasn't very funny, Beebee. You're gonna have to work on your delivery."

[Designation: Friend-Poe must return to Resistance headquarters.]

"Well, I would, but it doesn't look like I'm going anywhere."

"Not with that attitude, you're not," interjected a commanding voice from outside Poe's field of vision. He instantly recognized it as the General's.

Hallucinating the two people he'd most let down. _Exactly_ what Poe's day needed.

Which was about when it occurred to Poe that, if he was hallucinating this badly, he couldn't trust the evidence of his senses about anything. _Anything_.

Kriff.

"Okay, Beebee, I need you to tell me something. Earlier you said you weren't here, so you're gonna be honest with me, right?"

[Affirmative,] BB-8 replied.

"Am I still on the _Finalizer_?"

[Negative.]

Well, that was something. "Am I dead?"

[Negative.]

That had been a stupid question anyway. Now for the tricky part.

"Am I going to die?"

[Affirmative.]

Belatedly, Poe remembered why you should never ask a droid that question.

"Well, I know that, buddy, but what timeframe are we talking here?"

"That depends on you," interrupted the General. "If you continue to lie here and converse with your hallucinations, you'll be dead in a day, two at the most. If, on the other hand, you get up and find a way of getting back to the base, you have years ahead of you."

"And why should I listen to you?" asked Poe, an unaccustomed bitterness in his tone. "I just crashed a ship, so I can't trust my hands. I'm hallucinating, so I can't trust my eyes or ears. And," he continued, "I just found out that I can't even trust my own mind. So _what the hell can I trust?_ "

She stepped into his field of view, standing directly over him. The starlight shone around and through her, and for a moment, she was nearly transparent. Soon, though, she solidified and continued speaking.

"Your representations of Beebee-Ate and I consist of what you learned from us. Do you trust that?"

Poe was silent. The General carried on as if he'd never interrupted her.

"If your survival is insufficient motivation, consider this: your mission is not finished, but neither is it hopeless. If you do not return for them, Beebee-Ate will do all within their power to bring the map to the base. The Resistance can change plans, but we cannot adapt to what we do not know. Commander, you are responsible for a report of the information breach. We have protocols in place, but we need to know what the enemy knows."

Poe shut his eyes. If his face hadn't been mushed into the sand, he would've looked away. When he opened his eyes again, the General's expression was softer, understanding.

"Also, when Beebee-Ate brings the map to the base, they will expect to find you there." She paused with a wry expression. "I've lost one good astromech to heartbreak. Don't make me lose another."

Poe took a deep breath. "I won't."

[Good. Beebee-Ate does not enjoy Low Power Mode.]

Poe smiled. "Well, buddy, you won't be needing it."

The General smiled then, and suddenly, she wasn't the General, the woman who had led two revolutions and endured more loss than most people could imagine without ever letting her grief interfere with her responsibilities. She was _Leia_ , the woman who had play-argued with her husband in the hallway while Poe played war games with her son. The woman who had brought him soup when he was sick, and laughed when he thanked her for "making" it- _oh, you don't want to try my cooking_. The woman who had delivered the news that Shara wouldn't come home, and draped a blanket around Poe and Kes while they both cried. The woman who had listened to Poe gush about his first flying lesson, his first boyfriend, his first promotion. The woman he'd accidentally called "Mom" more times than he cared to admit.

 _Don't make me lose another_.

He got the feeling she'd been talking about more than astromechs.

Then, the moment was gone, and the General was back to business. "Alright. First, assess the damage." She paused to clarify. " _Physical_ damage. You can worry about the other kind once you're safe."

Poe closed his eyes, concentrating.

[Friend-Poe is running an internal diagnostic. Friend-Poe is malfunctioning due to unknown hardware damage or malicious code. Beebee-Ate hopes Friend-Poe is okay.]

"Thanks, buddy." Continuing his "internal diagnostic", Poe found worsening cases of dehydration and hypothermia, two cracked ribs (not fully broken, not in danger of stabbing anything vital); a vicious sunburn on his face and hands; various cuts, scrapes, bruises, abrasions, and burns (including a couple that could have been sandburns, sunburns, or first-order-asshole burns); and two head wounds, including one moderate concussion. No broken bones except the ribs, no internal bleeding, and all of the ship had remained outside of his body. All told, could've been a lot worse. He reported his findings to the General.

"If you have a concussion, sitting up isn't going to be easy, but it can be done. Make sure you move very slowly-the last thing you need in this climate is to be sick and lose what little water you've got." Slowly, Poe brought a hand up under his head and pushed himself up. Pain jolted through his head, and he nearly collapsed back onto the sand with the resulting wave of dizzy nausea, but he managed to remain in his semi-upright position.

"Okay," he gasped out once he'd acclimatized slightly, "what do I do now?"

"Give yourself a few minutes like this before you try to stand up. Move too fast and you could vomit, and you'll only fall back down."

"Wouldn't want that," said Poe, who really ought to have been able to generate a wittier reply.

"Once your nausea and pain levels have gone back to what they were when you were lying down, you can try sitting up all the way. After that, acclimatize again and stand. _Slowly_."

"Will do," Poe mumbled.

The General stopped and looked at him again, and once more, Leia shone out of her face. "By the way, Poe, you needn't worry about the contents of that report. No one blames you." She closed her eyes for a moment. "I know what it feels like, to be interrogated with the Force. When you get home, ask me what I did in those early days. I know some things that might help. Of course, I can't tell you now, for obvious reasons," she said with a faint smile, "but I'm sure I'd be glad to."

"Thank you," said Poe quietly.

"May the Force be with you, Commander," said the General. Then she was gone.

"Beebee-Ate?" Poe called. There was no reply.

 _Right, then._ Poe slowly sat up, then got to his hands and knees, each progression towards the vertical sending a fresh spike of pain through his pounding head. Eventually, slowly, cautiously, he stood.

The resulting wave of pain made him clap a hand to his head and swear fiercely, swaying on his feet. He almost fell. He didn't.

In the distance, a thin band of sunlight stained the sky a lighter indigo, promising warmth. (And burning heat, and dehydration, but Poe would take what blessings he could.)

Poe took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and started walking.

It was going to be a long day.

 **Comments? Questions? Stuff you liked? Stuff you didn't like? Just want to yell at me? Leave a review!**

 **This chapter is unbeta'd and edited under the influence of migraine medication. Any mistakes are my own.**

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